


A Kirkwall Thanksgiving

by beetle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Apparently one can buy toddler-sized weaponry in Hightown, Bad Cooking, Banter, Companionable Snark, Cooking, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Dorian is Scandalized, F/F, Family Feels, Fatherhood, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Happy Ending, Holidays, Humor, Kirkwall Thanksgiving, Light Angst, Light-Hearted, Love, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Marriage, Modern Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Modern Thedas, Parenthood, Post-Canon, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Same-Sex Marriage, Snark, Thanksgiving, The Family We Meet, Two Poor Little Rich Kids Finally Getting Family RIGHT, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, food preparation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 21:38:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16710511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: While ostensibly preparing a large Thanksgiving meal for a large Thanksgiving get-together, Nessa Trevelyan and Dorian Pavus drink, trade barbs, and are quite thankful for everything. Inspired by a wonderful Turkey Day doodle in an Adoribull Facebook group, of which I’m lucky and honored to be a part.EDIT:See just below the fic for the doodle that inspired this, and a link to the artist’s AO3 and Tumblr!





	A Kirkwall Thanksgiving

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nessa_T](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nessa_T/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: SFW. Set in Modern Thedas—Hightown, in Kirkwall, to be specific—post-Inquisition. Mature/R, mostly for language and humor. If there’re spoilers, they’re vague.

“You’re not adding _nearly_ enough white to make that a memorable _orlaise_ , Vanessa. Nor enough freshly-squeezed lemon juice. In fact, if you want _my_ advice—”

 

“And I _always_ do, Cousin. Seek it out at every possible turn, I do,” Nessa Trevelyan informed Dorian Pavus with utterly virtuous virtue and sincere sincerity. Then she snorted as Dorian very likely rolled his eyes in exasperation. Rolling _her_ eyes, too, but nonetheless adding a splash more of white wine to the aforementioned _orlaise_ , she grabbed another bloody lemon-half and elbowed Dorian just a touch forcefully. When he huffed and muttered something about barbaric and thankfully distant blood-relations, she snickered and—speedy as a thought—reached out and snatched a slice of sweet red pepper from Dorian’s neatly-arranged cutting board. In fact, his half of the center-island was impeccable. Nessa’s was . . . less so. But mostly because of the scattered empties and bits of lemon peel. “Nice job with the hors d'oeuvres, by the way. Especially the crudités and dressing. I’d’ve lost my mind, by now, doing all that slicing and mincing. And half my bloody fingers, too.”

 

Dorian’s sigh was long-suffering, but genteel. “Hmph. What a shame we’ll all miss-out on such a charmingly personalized _la vinaigrette de Vanessa_! But I suppose we’ll make do _somehow_.” This time, Dorian did a huff-and-sigh combo, picked up a slice of red pepper and took delicate, thoughtful bites until it was gone. Then a rather large sip from his capacious and topped-off glass of Antivan Lambrusco.

 

Nessa smirked. She knew, from several prior Kirkwellian Thanksgivings spent together, that Dorian would soon be ready to move from that light and delightful aperitif, to the heavier, fortifying stuff: the Nevarran port they both favored and which Nessa always kept in-stock and in-plenty.

 

And eventually, they’d both move on to the digestif/equalizer they rewarded themselves with at the adjourning of every Thanksgiving dinner: the Rivaini fernet that was highly illegal in every state of the Free Marches, but which Varric—the bloody _Viscount of Kirkwall_ —never failed to smuggle in for Nessa and Dorian at least once per season.

 

“It’s really rather remarkable that someone as talented and downright _eerie_ as you are with a pair of blades can’t even manage a basic crudités platter. It’d be like me, setting myself ablaze every time I used mage-fire!” Dorian snorted and laughed. “It’s amazing that more of your get-togethers _don’t_ feature the guests gnawing on huge chunks of unsliced meat, bread, and veg!”

 

Nessa cleared her throat, dropped the squeezed lemon-half into another bowl with several of the same, and snagged her own form of Thanksgiving fortification: more of her favorite stout. From a small, little-known brewery in Ostwick, the stout itself was called Bearpaw Swipe. It had an ABV larger than any other stout to be had in the Marches and was nearly thick enough to chew.

 

It was bloody _lovely_. And one of two things Nessa missed—or would have, if not for Colin sending her random care-packages that included the stout and some other particulars only to be had from the _Old Country_ —about bloody Ostwick.

 

The other being Colin— _Lord Trevelyan_ —himself.

 

“Honestly, Dorian. That was _one time_. Sera and I had only barely got settled, here, and couldn’t find the box with the bloody utensils. We eventually had to buy new—and the damned box _still_ hasn’t turned up almost six years later. Probably still on the lorry we rented,” Nessa added in a dour mutter and took another savoring swig of stout. “Plus, since I have such a wonderful wife and _even wonderfuler_ cousin-dear, willing to perfectly dice the foliage into healthy, tasty nibbles for us all—simultaneously sparing me from clumsily severing my poor, fragile fingers—”

 

“ _Fragile???_ ” Dorian blurted, then snorted and snickered. _Then,_ he smacked Nessa’s hand when she went for a bit of carrot. “Savage. And your fingertips are like textured leather—I doubt you actually _could_ cut them off with an ordinary kitchen-knife!”

 

“Mm. _Sera_ rather approves of my textured leather-fingertips. Among other of my textured and talented appendages. . . .”

 

“Eugh.” Dorian shuddered melodramatically, rolling his eyes ceilingward. Nessa chuckled, waggling her eyebrows as she elbowed him again, this time more playfully. He reached for his wine and took another sip, this one almost perfunctory, then set the glass back a good distance from the cutting board he was using and next to the trays of already-sliced and arranged crudités, with their small bowls of dressing and dips.

 

Nessa’s half of the center-island counter wasn’t nearly so ordered and accomplished, and she made a sulky-pouty moue. “Anyway. You’re just green with envy because _I_ still have a sex-life, Cousin. How’re those, ahem, _Therrible Threes Thimes Thwo_ treating you and Bull, by the by?”

 

Dorian groaned and grimaced, but it quickly turned into a tender smile. “About as well as you’re intimating. It _has_ been rather difficult for me and Bull to enjoy as much, hmm, us-time as we did, even just a year ago—never mind _before_ we adopted Iona and Elias. I’m honestly starting to wonder if _she_ ever sits still, anymore, and if _he_ ever bloody shuts up. They were such quiet and serene little cherubs when we first got them,” he added wistfully.

 

“All children are, before they learn to walk and talk. Then _run_ and talk _back_ ,” Nessa noted with commiseration, remembering how insufferable Colin had been as a toddler. To the point that she’d dictated a letter to their nanny, ultimately meant for their parents, suggesting that Little-Brother-Colin be fostered to a family in the Anderfels. The letter had also rather passive-aggressively wondered why their parents had bothered to have a second child at all, when their first had undoubtedly been _quite_ satisfactory. . . .

 

Nessa hadn’t thought of that letter since watching the nanny fold it and put it in her apron pocket for “safe-keepeeng and dee-livairy.” But she supposed that the kind, young Orlesienne—whose name Nessa couldn’t remember, but whose smile and warmth she _always_ would—hadn’t bothered Lady and Lord Trevelyan with their eldest child’s dissatisfied whinging.

 

“It’s been a bit of a challenge, I must say, curbing our old routine of sex-now-whenever for the past nineteen months. We’re still very much adjusting,” Dorian went on, sotto-voiced, as if Iona and Elias—or Bull—might hear this admission. “Last year, on Thanksgiving Eve, while Bull was helping me prep for the big meal the next day, things got a bit, er, frisky, and—”

 

“And while you two were stuffing the turkey, you decided to . . . _stuff the turkey_?” Nessa made her own rather stagey attempt at _sotto voce_ , complete with more eyebrow-waggling and a faint leer.

 

Dorian gave her the flattest, most unamused glare she’d received in quite some time. “—and the children woke up from their nap and ran into the kitchen looking for us. _Thankfully,_ before our divertissement actually became one. And I’ll thank you to _not_ compare my perfectly-toned and perfectly-proportioned arse to a dead bird, Vanessa. Or my husband’s prick to handfuls of stale bread, diced vegetables, and seasoning.”

 

Guffawing, Nessa shook her head—nearly upended the bowl with the wine-heavy _orlaise_ and narrowly avoided knocking several empty stout bottles to the floor when she slapped the countertop in delight. “There’re pictures in my head, now, for which I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive you.”

 

“And it serves you right. Enjoy _that_ marital-aid, you ribald heathen.” Dorian sniffed haughtily, but below that persnickety mustache, his lips were twitching upward a little. “Not that you need to do more than exist-in-proximity, to fan the flames of _your_ better half.”

 

“Ah, poor Dorian . . .  green really _isn’t_ your color!” Nessa admonished, while still fighting raucous chortles.

 

“Balderdash— _every_ color is my color. And I’m not at all envious of your sex-life. Though I might be if I was thinking merely in terms of the frequency, and _not_ the participants,” Dorian mused blithely, smirking over at Nessa without slowing his speedy mincing of a stalk of celery. “Though, I don’t imagine _you_ , at least, would be too terribly annoying to bed or wed.”

 

“Are you casting aspersions on my bride, serah?” Nessa gaped as a last few laughs hiccupped from her and Dorian’s smirk turned conciliatory.

 

“ _Of course_ , I am. But only on her personality, not the rest of her,” he reassured with warm condescension. “Sera Trevelyan is what I’d call . . . a _deal-breaker,_ when it comes to marriageability—whether for the purposes of passion, convenience, or expediency—and any domestic or professional situation. Or anything that _isn’t_ stealing, playing pranks, and studding ‘little baddies’ with ‘little arrows.’ Oh, and let’s not forget she’s often bossy for no reason, often bossy for _all_ the reasons, and _far too adept_ at general mischief-making and nuisancery.”

 

“Nuisancer—is that even a—never mind, never mind.” Nessa shook her head, not even bothering with asking. Dorian made up words constantly and admitted it _never_. And he _had done_ for the entirety of their friendship. “Right, then. Bossy for all the reasons _and_ for no reasons . . . are you certain we’re still talking about _my wife_ and not _Bull’s_?” She batted her eyes innocently at Dorian who instantly became the epitome of overdone and ham-ish offense.

 

“ _Bull’s_ wife is absolutely _nothing_ like yours, Vanessa. For one thing, he’s ever-so-much _prettier_. And for another, he looks utterly _ravishing_ in silk scarves and nothing else,” he purred, then smirked smugly. Nessa made a face.

 

“Sera’s a bloody _vision_ in silks, too!” she asserted—but, to be quite honest, could only _imagine,_ since she’d never actually _seen_ such a sight—and Dorian raised one shaped eyebrow doubtfully.

 

“You mean, she actually wears items of clothing made from something _other_ than unevenly-dyed cotton and garish plaidweave, to entice you? I’d rather thought the extent of her seduction wardrobe and repertoire would be sudden nudity and grabby-hands!”

 

Both caught-out and with no ready rebuttal, Nessa squinted at Dorian and pursed her lips. “Methinks the demanding power-bottom doth protest _my lady_ too much,” she said, stirred to be _very nearly_ half-offended, herself.

 

Dorian gave her a wry look that quite clearly said: _Oh, please, Vanessa-dear. It’s Thanksgiving. Don’t start a bitch-brawl you couldn’t possibly bitch-win_. “And _me_ thinks the pushover service-top protests her lady _not enough_. She’s got you wrapped around her littlest, thieving finger, y’know. I’ve lost what little respect for you I once had.”

 

Grumbling, but capitulating—she had to acknowledge, if only to herself, Dorian’s sound and soundless advice, which meant losing _this_ bitch-brawl now, but not necessarily losing the ongoing bitch-war—Nessa grabbed a whisk and applied it to the _orlaise_ , meaning to mix in some of that white wine better. “You’re quite right, Cousin. It’s shameful. She _does_ have me wrapped right-‘round her fingers. _Nightly_ , even.”

 

“ _Euuugh_.” This time, there was a very genuine shudder, too. Seeing it, even just from the corner of her eye, was enough to bring back Nessa’s grin.

 

Really, it was winning the _tiny_ bitch-battles that kept _her_ bitch-morale and bitch-stamina high.

 

“Hypocrite,” she accused, but without bite or rancor. “As if _you’ve_ not got _The Iron Bull_ wrapped around _all_ your mannered and manicured digits, like fresh candy-floss—with his totally willing and eager permission!”

 

“You say that only because you’ve never witnessed me haranguing him to take out the rubbish at nights, or to stop giving Iona and Elias weapons—did you know they sell toddler-sized, practice weapons at _several different shops_ in Hightown, alone?” Dorian sounded scandalized and disappointed, but Nessa merely snorted, unsurprised and unwillingly impressed. “Elias, bless him, gives all of his . . . baby battle-gear to Iona and goes back to his drawings. Unfortunately, Iona finds a use for _every_ potential implement-of-violence laid before her.”

 

“’Atta girl,” Nessa approved, smiling and nodding. Only to get elbowed by Dorian, for once. She shrugged and smiled apologetically.

 

“Don’t encourage her! Oh, you know what I mean!” he quickly added when Nessa gave him a waspish look. “Don’t encourage _her father_ to encourage her! One never knows when that great, sneaky lummox is lingering and spying! So far, he’s refrained from training her in more than basic, supposedly age-appropriate self-defense. If he hears that _you_ think it’s a good idea, _Boss_ , our daughter will be a Reaver before she can bloody read!”

 

“And your complaint about that is. . . ?”

 

“Barbarian,” Dorian muttered, and Nessa chuckled as he went on. “I swear, if I didn’t love that man more than life, itself . . . well. He’s very lucky that I _do_ , or else I’d have turned him into a . . . cappuccino-maker or . . . a new blender, or . . . something else I can never remember to buy when I’m out.”

 

He sighed in semi-rueful frustration and Nessa shook her head, bemused. “Cappuccino-makers and blenders, is it? Apostacy has really left you mages unfettered in your wanton acts of magical excess and depravity. The populace is right to be fearful of your powers and ambition. Why, if you lot had _your_ way, Southern Thedas would be full of nothing but cappuccino-makers and blenders, and nobody but mages high on espresso beverages or drunk off margaritas!”

 

“That _does_ sound rather utopic,” Dorian agreed, then grumbled some, too. “Unfortunately, mage cannot live on beverages, alone. Even caffeinated and alcoholic ones. Once one goes Vashoth, one doesn’t go back, I’m afraid. I’ve become _very_ accustomed to the way Bull fulfills his marital duties.”

 

“I’ll bet. Tree branches and custard, and all that. _Blegh_.” Nessa made another face and Dorian hummed, amused and fond.

 

“Blegh, indeed. But it’s not _just_ that, that I’d miss. It’s all the _other_ things that he does and ways that he _is_ which makes the, er, tree branches and custard that much _better. Everything Bull is_ makes everything _else_ . . . better.”

 

When Nessa glanced over at Dorian once again, the mage was smiling rather dreamily down at his at-last-paused knife and a half-julienned yellow pepper. After a minute, she elbowed him again very gently, then grinned when he aimed a questioning, but distracted look at her.

 

“You two are _disgustingly_ sweet. And . . . wonderfully inspiring,” she said, gone serious and utterly sincere for a few moments. Then she shrugged, cleared her throat, and aimed her gaze back down at her own idle hands. The backs were the color of raw umber and crisscrossed with various kinds of scars. The hand itself was wide, and the fingers were stubby and blunt-tipped. Matter-of-fact and utilitarian.

 

They were not the fingers one expected of a near-legendary sometimes-thief and sometimes- _er_ -assassin. They were not the sort of fingers one would think had become known for performing singular feats of manual dexterity and delicacy even in these post-Inquisition years. There was nothing in their look that spoke of cleverness or grace or inescapable dooms, and yet . . . Nessa still sometimes wondered if they were meant for anything else. For softer, safer, sweeter things—in lasting ways. She supposed she always would have her doubts, even up to her dying day.

 

“Listen, Dorian: you know me. I’ve always been good at acquiring the things I want, whether through manipulation and guile and cunning, or work and strategy and striving. Or various sorts of intimidation—I’m really not picky,” she said, smiling charmingly and automatically at the wine-y _orlaise_ . . . then frowning. “I’ve never had trouble getting what I want, for the most part. Material or intangible—and some things that were the best of both. I’m a taker, by nature, and _very_ deft at that, for good or ill. But I’ve never been much of a _keeper_. Through design and destiny, I just . . . I’m not wired for that. Nearly everything I’ve ever taken or won, I’ve then lost. Either because I didn’t care enough to keep it or was afraid and didn’t know how to _fight_ for it. Or perhaps . . . simply couldn’t bear to fight a losing battle. Love and trust and closeness, and people I could share those things with have always fallen squarely under the heading of _losing battle_. Until you. _You_ were the first person I ever made an effort to _keep_. And through learning to keep you . . . I learned how to _keep others_. To _have friends_. And if not for your relationship with _Bull_ as a leading example, I’d have _never_ been able to keep a wife. And certainly not if that wife had been _Sera. Would not_ , even now, know how to put-in the hard, humbling, and sometimes painful work it takes to _keep_ keeping her.”

 

When she paused, both for breath and for bravery, Dorian ventured a gentle touch to her bicep, lingering but light, only settling with any weight when she refused to look at him. “You’re one of the most selfless, earnest, and idealistic people I’ve ever known, Vanessa Trevelyan. Or, you _can be_ —even if those sterling virtues lie below full-fathom-five of irreverent, sarcastic, and at-times callous exterior. In fact, it’s _my_ experience that . . . the taller, thicker, and rougher the walls are, the softer, more sensitive, and more _vulnerable_ is that which lies behind them. And _your walls_ can be . . . practically a fortress. But that _doesn’t_ mean they aren’t _eminently_ worth scaling,” he finished quietly, his hand now squeezing her shoulder fervently.

 

They were of a height, but in that moment, Dorian seemed taller than she, for certain. As much taller-than as Bull actually was of them both. But for all that, the towering nature of his character, kindheartedness, and faith in her didn’t make her feel especially small and worthless, as it had, once upon a time. Now, it made her feel protected and cared-for. Looked-after in a way only Sera’s arms and affection could surpass.

 

“You’ve no idea how wrong you are, on _that_ count, Cousin. But it’s a kindness that you’re so fierce about it, and one of many reasons why I _do_ love you dearly.” Nessa finally glanced at Dorian again, catching a concerned and attentive look on his handsome face. She tried to smile and take some of the gravity out of her demeanor—not to mention the words she suddenly couldn’t keep back. “The way you and Bull are together, the way you love and try, care and fight for what you have and work to _keep having_ is my blueprint for how to live with, be with, and honor the partner _I_ love. The passion with which you face each other—and _face the world together_ , as well as the familiarity, laughter, sweetness, devotion, intensity, loyalty, and fidelity you lavish upon each other eagerly is everything I continue to strive for and always will. You two are the purest, _best_ example of real, forever-love I’ve ever had. You make it look perfect and effortless, even though I know _nothing_ is perfect. Even though I know _any_ love as deep and lasting as the love you two share is bought and maintained with more effort and care than _anyone_ outside of it will ever realize. Nevertheless, I look to _your marriage_ to help me chart the course of my own. Which isn’t to say there aren’t still choppy, turbulent waters and sometimes near-perilous passages to navigate. But you two . . . are my how-tos and inspiration for persevering and finding calmer, better seas. I _know_ they exist because you two _exist in them_ and exemplify them, even for a hopeless fuck-up at all the important stuff, like me. If not for you both, I wouldn’t have this marriage, this love, this _life_. I wouldn’t have known how or been remotely worthy to be _anyone’s_ partner and support and family—let alone Sera’s—without you two to show me such a path existed and light the way ahead.”

 

Looking away from Dorian’s surprised, _touched_ , and steady stare again, Nessa started whisking again, stopped whisking again, then took a gulp of her stout that finished the bottle. “Anyway. Shit—sorry. Too much bloody stout before bloody noon, I suppose. What I _meant_ to say, but with far less blubbering, is . . . you two’ve got something special and that’s bloody plain. Plainer, _still_ , now that you’ve got those tireless rug-rats flailing and yapping, and turnin’ into adorable mini-yous in front of all our eyes. You’ve got a _family_ , and a happy one that _you two made_ and are keeping healthy and close. _Cheers_ to that and to _you_. And . . . _thank you_. For showing me how love and trust and family are _really_ done, and for bloody _daring me_ to try it for myself.” Nodding once Nessa took up her whisking yet again: vigorously, if without much rhythm. “There. That’s my piece and it’s been said. Over and done. So, quit gawping at me and finish swilling that Lambrusco, you indolent fop, so we can decant the maker-damned port before Cullen gets here.”

 

After nevertheless staring silently and intently at her for most of a minute longer, Dorian gave Nessa’s shoulder a final, firm squeeze and resumed his chopping.

 

“You’re very welcome,” he said—casual, but tender—when another several, abashed-but-companionable minutes had passed. Nessa huffed, used the countertop edge to relieve another bottle of Bearpaw Swipe of its non-twist cap, and took a long gulp.

 

 _After that_ , the _pleased_ -and-companionable silence that followed was broken only by the distant sounds of Bull, Iona, Elias, and Sera thundering upstairs from the former wine cellar Nessa and Sera had converted into an enormous, games-and-modcons-stocked rec-room. The unsupervised group then had what sounded like a sprint-race up the back hall and almost to the kitchen . . . before sprinting right back down the hall, then thundering _down_ the stairs. The entire mini-mayhem was replete with Bull’s booming, hearty laughter and the children’s happy-energetic shrieks and giggles . . . as well as Sera’s failed attempts at not swearing in front of said children. From the sound, she’d actually been doing better than she had even a month ago.

 

Warmed by more than stout and the heat thrown off by the oven and burners in use, Nessa didn’t have to look over at her _very_ distant cousin and very _bestest_ friend to know that he was once again smiling that dreamy, contented smile. She also didn’t have to look to know that he’d stopped creating crudités and was simply leaning on the counter, fingertips circling the rim of his still mostly-full wine glass.

 

Holding her own mostly-full bottle up to the light for gauging, Nessa tsked, and took another swig. At this rate, they’d _never_ make it to the port at all, forget the fernet!

 

But, as tragedies went, well, that wasn’t _much_ of one. _Microscopic_ , really, and for that . . . Vanessa Phyllis Emilienne Trevelyan was truly and deeply _thankful_.

 

Not just on that day, but on all of them.

 

“Think that’s a bit too much white?” Nessa asked doubtfully a few minutes later, as she added another generous splash to the mostly-wine- _orlaise_. Dorian glanced critically at the mixing bowl, hummed, then shrugged.

 

“ _I’d_ say _no_ , but . . . look who you’re asking.”

 

“Mm. A valid point. But, eh, fuck it,” Nessa grunted—added another small splash that splashed a bit _too far_ , causing Dorian to make petulant noises about his pristine right shirt sleeve—and took another swallow of her stout.

 

Thus, the last of the morning passed into afternoon, followed shortly by the arrival of the first of their loved ones. Followed, in dribs and drabs—some Johnny-on-the-spot and others Johnny-come-lately—by many more. And each brought with them another appreciated share of return and reunion. Love and laughter. Feast and family. Homecoming and _happiness_.

 

Thanks . . . given. And thanks, received.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Art by [Nessa_T](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nessa_T) and featured on [Adoribull Addicts](https://nessa-t.tumblr.com/)!

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> **SOME END NOTES:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I started writing this at about nine a.m. today (U.S. Turkey Day), and just finished final line-edits about fifteen minutes ago. It went a bit awry from what the adorable Adoribull doodle that inspired it—and from what I’d originally meant to write, but . . . I’m not displeased with it. Hope you enjoyed it and that you’ve had a good November 21st, whether you’re celebrating something, giving thanks, or just trying to make it through until the 22nd. Gobble-gobble and thanks for reading <3
> 
> ::salutes::
> 
> And THANK YOU, to [Nessa_T](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nessa_T/pseuds/Nessa_T) for fun, funny, sweet, ADORIBULL, inspiring, spirit-lifting fanart and fandoodles. Whatever’s good about this fic is all you, my friend <3 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Powered by :**
> 
>  
> 
> [Fiona Apple - Extraordinary Machine - Album Full ►►](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SrUxiTPE1iw)
> 
>  
> 
> [Click for a free ~~TURKEY!!!!~~ Tumble](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com). . . .


End file.
